Shadow of the Past

by Unknown Author

  “Clear the area," Scott told the others.

  The X-Men stood back from the cell. So did Jeffrey, no doubt at Professor Xavier's instigation.

  "Consider it cleared," said Hank.

  "Let's light this candle," Bobby added.

  A moment later, the air around the cube began to seethe with a network of silver beams. Hank couldn't see the floor below the cell, but he knew that there was an ionic energy grid down there as well. After all, he had helped with its installation.

  The doppelganger eyed the beams through the transparent portions of his prison. He didn't seem overjoyed at the sight of them. But then, any contact he made with them would compromise his corporeal integrity, tearing him apart the way a storm wind might tear apart a plume of smoke.

  In other words, the furry blue mutant assured himself, Lucifer's energy duplicate isn't going anywhere.

  Scott got up and turned to his teammates. "That takes care of our first order of business." He glanced at the only person among them that lacked a costume. "Now let’s see what Jeffrey can tell us."

  Hank was eager to determine that as well.

  Sitting Jeffrey down behind the desk in his study, Xavier looked at his X-Men, who were scattered across the room. All five of them were intent on him, willing to learn whatever he could teach them.

  He wished he could simply speak to them about Lucifer's plot. However, his host was a mute, unable to effectively utilize his vocal cords, and that was a hurdle the professor couldn't seem to overcome.

  Scott turned to Jean. "Ready?" he asked.

  Jean nodded. Then she regarded Jeffrey in a way that told Xavier she was trying to plumb the young man's mind.

  Unfortunately, the professor couldn't do anything to help her. True, he had managed to gain access to Jeffrey's consciousness-but it didn't allow him to grant access to others.

  As an alternative, Xavier could have tried to reach Jean with his own mind. However, he already knew where that would lead. The dimensional barrier would prevent him from carrying on any significant dialogue.

  For several seconds, Jean concentrated. Her brow bunched in a small knot of flesh above the bridge of her nose.

  "Anything?" Scott asked finally.

  Jean sighed heavily and shook her head. "If the professor's in there, I can't find even a hint of him."

  “He’s got to be in there," Bobby insisted. "Jeffrey couldn't have showed up at the mansion on his own."

  Xavier wished that Jean had been successful in her efforts to communicate with him. However, they hadn't yet expended all their options. There was at least one more open to them.

  He pulled out one of the drawers on the side of his desk and removed a sheet from a sheaf of fine writing paper, which he had gotten as a Christmas gift the year before. Then he reached across the desk for a gold-plated pen that had been part of the same present.

  “The professor's going to write something," Scott observed.

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  "An excellent idea," said Hank. "Perhaps we'll finally get to the bottom of this conundrum."

  It was difficult for Xavier to make Jeffrey's fingers wrap themselves around the writing implement. After all, they weren't accustomed to such fine motor activity. However, he hadn't come this far to be stymied by a few inexperienced muscles.

  Slowly, laboriously, the professor managed to scratch out a word with the pen in Jeffrey Saunders' hand. Then, just as laboriously, he scrawled another, and a third.

  “What does it say?" asked Warren, craning his neck to get a better look at the piece of paper.

  "Lucifer... kidnapped ... me," Jean read out loud.

  Warren swore beneath his breath. "Lucifer... ?"

  "So that's who's behind this," said Scott.

  “I thought Lucifer was dead," Bobby remarked.

  “So did I,” Warren chipped in.

  "Apparently not," Jean replied.

  "Hence, the need to obtain Quistalian technology," Hank deduced, his eyes bright with enlightenment. “A need, it seems, that had nothing to do with an impending invasion after all. But what did Lucifer plan to do with the stuff when he got it?"

  Xavier looked up at him, wishing he could answer his X-Man's question out loud. But he couldn't, of course, so he compelled Jeffrey to resume his clumsy efforts at writing.

  "He ... wants ...to... he wants to come back!" Bobby exclaimed, reading Jeffrey's scrawl. He looked at the others. "Lucifer must still be in the Nameless Dimension-and he's trying to get out again!”

  Scott nodded grimly. "That sounds plausible. He's pulled the strings from that place before."

  "Then where's the professor?" asked Warren. He looked directly into Jeffrey's eyes. "Where is he holding you, sir?"

  Again, Xavier required his host to apply pen to paper. Unfortunately, the process wasn't getting any easier. In fact, Jeffrey's fingers were beginning to cramp.

  Bear with me, the professor told him. Please, just a little longer. Then you can rest all you like.

  He sensed Jeffrey's willingness to help. No, Xavier reflected-it was more than willingness. It was determination.

  "I'm ... there ... too," Hank announced. He turned to Jeffrey, understanding dawning in his furry, blue face. "My god ... the professor is in the Nameless Dimension as well.”

  Silence reigned for a moment as the team absorbed the implications of Hank's statement-none of which were very cheerful. Finally, it was Jean who spoke up.

  "How can we get you back?" she asked Jeffrey. Of course, she was really asking the question of Xavier. "What do you want us to do?"

  As before, the professor made his host's hand scratch out an answer, and this time it was longer and considerably more painful than before. But in the confines of his mind, Jeffrey didn't complain; understanding how terribly important this was to the man in the wheelchair.

  “The ... third ... piece," Jean said, interpreting what she saw. "Put... with ... others."

  “Of course," said Hank, stroking his chin with powerful, blue fingers. "The professor wants us to obtain the third Quistalian component and configure it with the first two."

  "But why?” asked Bobby. "Unless..

  Scott tacked an ending on his teammate's thought for him. "Unless it was with the assistance of the resulting machine that Lucifer was hoping to return to Earth."

  Warren nodded. "Except we'll be using it for a different purpose-to bring the professor back instead."

  Jean looked at Jeffrey. "That's it, isn't it, sir? We need to complete Lucifer's machine in order to bring you back?"

  With consummate resolve, Professor Xavier carved out one more word below the others: “Yes."

  Scott scanned his teammates' faces. "Then it’s settled,” he said. “We head for the Antarctic after all."

  "What about Jeffrey?" asked Bobby.

  Warren frowned. "We can't just leave him here."

  “Indeed," Hank agreed. "Especially when Lucifer might have some other tricks up his sleeve."

  "But we don't know what we'll find in the Antarctic," Scott pointed out. "Jeffrey might be in more danger if he comes with us."

  “There’s another consideration," said Hank. "After all, Jeffrey is our only means of access to Professor Xavier. His input may prove invaluable when we reach our destination."

  Jean regarded Jeffrey. "We should leave this up to the professor. He'll know what's best for everyone."

  Bobby nodded. "Good idea."

  Warren eyed Xavier's host. “What should we do, sir? Should we take you and Jeffrey along?"

  Jeffrey nodded emphatically. Yes, Professor X thought. By all means, Warren, take us with you.

  Lucifer watched the X-Men from the not-here-and-not-there reality of the Nameless Dimension ... and nearly choked on his red-hot fury.

  His ionic energy duplicate had been exposed as a fraud and incarcerated by those he had duped. The Quistalian's own involvement in the plot had been unceremoniously

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  revealed. And the details o
f Lucifer's scheme to regain his freedom had been laid bare for all to see.

  Under such circumstances, why wouldn't he be angry? Why wouldn't his rage be savage and all-consuming, like the heat of a raw young sun?

  But even through the haze of his wrath, the Quistalian could see all was far from lost. In dispatching his mutant underlings to Earth's Antarctic region, Xavier had made a critical mistake. He had given his adversary an opportunity to rise from the ground and emerge victorious despite everything that had gone before.

  Lucifer hadn't ascended to a high and exalted rank in his people's galaxy-spanning interplanetary hierarchy by ignoring such opportunities. By the Supreme One who had sent him to Earth in the first place, he wasn't going to ignore this opportunity either.

  I letch Cuppy was a man who was going places.

  All his life, he had been certain of that, as certain as the sun coming up in the morning. Even when other people made fun of him for hunting squirrels day-in and day-out, and never bothering to look for a proper job, he held onto the notion that he would do himself proud one day.

  It was just a matter of time, Fletch always told himself. He was like a big old mess of dynamite, waiting patiently for the right match to come along and light his fuse.

  And now, he believed, it had.

  Fascinated, Fletch turned the page of the magazine some trucker had left in Fletch's regular booth at the Interstate 84 All-Night Diner and Gas-Right. He had only come in for a cup of coffee and some chewing gum, like always, but the magazine had been lying there on the pale blue seat as if Providence had set it down especially for Fletch to find.

  And so as to leave nothing to chance and the devil, Providence had opened the darn thing to an article about Silicon

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  Valley. Of course, Fletch had heard people mention the place before, but he hadn't ever been curious enough to learn more about it.

  The magazine article said people were getting rich in Silicon Valley, one right after the other. They were starting up companies and getting their faces on television. And as far as Fletch could tell, they weren't any smarter or handsomer or more charming than he was. The only thing they had going for them was they were handy with computers.

  If I was handy with computers, Fletch had reckoned, I could get rich too. I could drive a fancy car and live in a fancy place and get some respect... even if I did decide to take off and hunt squirrels for a while.

  Unfortunately, he didn't know a computer from a secondhand waffle iron. That had presented a bit of a problem, at first.

  Then Fletch saw the ad on the page opposite part of the article. It told him he could learn about computers in no time. Anybody could. All they had to do was send away for a book and a set of tapes.

  It sounded like school learning to Fletch, and he hadn't ever paid much attention to school learning. But the ad made it sound real easy-as if the tapes did all the work, and all someone like Fletch had to do was sit back and let everything sink in.

  He believed he could handle that just fine. His only remaining obstacle was paying for the book and the tapes, which came to the modest sum of $59.95 plus postage and handling.

  Fletch's mom worked behind the counter in Stemmeyer's Convenience Store in town, which was how Fletch got money for coffee and chewing gum and bullets for his gun. Of course, he hated to ask her for anything special, because

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  she always got so ornery about it and told him he was a good-for-nothing slug like his daddy.

  But this time, it was different. Fletch needed that money as he had never needed anything in his entire life. And he was going to get it even if he had to beat his mother worse then he did that other time, when the sheriff had to come and put him away for a day or two.

  "More coffee, hon?" asked his mom's friend Inez, coming along to give him a free refill.

  Fletch shook his head emphatically from side to side, shaking loose a lock of blond hair. "No, thank you, Inez. I believe I've got me something to do today. I'm a fella who’s going places, you know.”

  The waitress looked at him squinty-eyed, as if she thought he might be joking with her. "You? Going places?"

  Fletch felt a spurt of anger. "That's right,” he told her, rolling up the magazine and sticking it in the back pocket of his jeans. “You just wait and see if I don't."

  Then he slid out of his booth, laid down a dollar for the coffee and the gum, and left his mom's friend standing there with her mouth open. He didn't have time for people who looked at him like that-not anymore, he didn't. Fie had his eye on the future now.

  Fletch's dark brown pickup truck was waiting for him in front of the diner, the autumn sun accenting the spots where its paint had rubbed off. Fie opened the driver's side door, swung himself in, and pulled the door closed behind him. Then he started the engine and pulled out onto the broad asphalt ribbon of Interstate 84.

  Off to his right, he could see the highest parts of the Salmon River Mountain chain, a dusky purple blur with a gleaming mantle of white. Funny, he thought. As long as he

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  had lived in this part of the state-all his life, really-he had never had occasion to visit those mountains.

  And now, he probably never would. After all, the Salmon River was a long way from Silicon Valley.

  Fletch grinned at the thought, immersing himself in the idea of running a big old company with his name on the outside of the building. And maybe a fountain out in front, he thought. He had always liked fountains.

  Fletch was so intent on his glorious magazine dream, so wrapped up in his prospects for quick success, he almost didn't notice the flash of silver in the cloudless sky-the flash that cut through the roof of his pickup truck like a hunting knife from Heaven and lodged in the soft chewy center of Fletch Cuppy’s brain.

  For a moment, he thought he had imagined the whole thing. After all, he didn't feel any different. He was still driving as steadily as ever, still making progress down a straight patch of westbound Interstate 84. Then he heard the whispers.

  You are mine.

  Fletch cast a glance over his shoulder at the truck's empty bed. "Who's talking to me?" he demanded.

  You will do as I tell you.

  "The heck I will," Fletch blurted, and tried to pull over onto the shoulder of the road.

  But he couldn't make his hands turn the steering wheel. It was as if they were no longer part of him, no longer under his control.

  You will remain on the road.

  Fletch's hands shook with fear. What in blue blazes was happening to him? Was he going insane the way his daddy did, the way his mother always told him he would too?

  “Please," he groaned, “1 don’t deserve this. Whoever you are, you've got to know that."

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  But the voice didn't show him any mercy, it went on the same as before, hissing like an angry snake inside his brain.

  You will help me gather others.

  Fletch could feel hot tears rolling down his cheeks. "What do you want from me?" he pleaded.

  The voice gave him no answer. It had fallen silent. But he had a feeling it knew what he had done to his mom.

  Suddenly, Fletch felt an irresistible pressure on his foot, forcing him to push down harder on his gas pedal. A moment later his old pickup truck shot forward, its chassis vibrating, its engine roaring as it had never roared before.

  There was no longer any question about it. Fletch Cuppy was clearly a man who was going places.

  Following the instructions Lucifer's doppelganger had laid out for them, Warren and his teammates soared over the immense blue and white ice fields of southern Antarctica.

  The terrain below them was blindingly beautiful, a series of sculpted mountain ranges rising precipitously from wide, unbroken plains. There was no other place on Earth that could match it for sheer splendor.

  It was here that the Quistalians had established one of their secret bases years earlier.

  "If you were an Antarctic crevasse," said Flank, who was
sitting in the pilot's seat and deftly guiding the Blackbird, "where would you be?”

  "Wait," said Bobby. "I think I see it." And he pointed to a spot ahead and to their right.

  Warren followed his teammate’s gesture and spotted a bluish line that cut a swathe from one range of ice crags to the next. “I see it too,” he announced to the others.

  Flank must have caught sight of the crevasse as well, because he decelerated, banked the Blackbird and headed right for it. "Please stow your trays and bring your seats to an upright position,” he quipped. "Remember to take all carry-on luggage with you when you leave the aircraft. And thank you for flying Air McCoy."

  They all smiied at their friend's jest-with one notable exception. Jeffrey, who was sitting in the back of the cabin, remained as expressionless as when they left Salem Center. Only his soulful, dark eyes were alive with interest and curiosity.

  Warren leaned across the aisle and put his hand on the young man's shoulder. “It won't be long now," he said reassuringly, though he wasn't sure if he was talking to Jeffrey or the professor... or both.

  “I hope that ice field is as solid as it looks,” Hank remarked with mock solemnity, "because it's the closest thing to a landing strip your pilot is likely to find."

  “We'll know how solid it is soon enough," Bobby told him.

  As it turned out, the ice field was every bit as solid as it looked. After descending in a gentle loop, Hank eased the Blackbird into a soft landing and cut the engines not a hundred meters from the crevasse. Then he turned back to his passengers and grinned a toothy grin.

  "Bundle up, kids," he advised his teammates. "I'm guessing it's a bit nippy out there."

  “A bit," Scott echoed ironically.

  Jean glanced at Bobby as she zipped up her thermal jumpsuit. "It's times like these I wish I had a nice coat of ice."

  Bobby returned the glance. "Sorry, Jeannie, but there's only room for one ice person in this bunch."

  “Believe me," Hank returned with a toothy grin, “one's enough."

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